God of the Game (Dreamstate) (21 page)

    On the contrary, wretched gods finding their paths in eternity are simply cut short their adventure. Kaput. Happily showing off some interactive 3D high-definition tattoo to she-devils
, and they’re turned to soft bunnies. Not that bad if the demonic chicks of the dark could cuddle them, but the sizzling nymphs too are transformed to teddy bears and other unbearable plush toys. Everywhere is like Smurf’s world, and you gotta carry on living as Winnie the Pooh’s distant relative or something.

    This didn’t fare too well for Jai-I’s ego. Some child named Nimrod had taken over. Some child! Imagine this. Imagine this happening to the son of Jahr, proud lofty son of Jahr.
How could he, this cool, cold, high standing Aura, concede defeat to a preadolescent despot? And yet he had. Nothing Jai-I fashioned overthrew that alien threat. He evoked all his technological incantations, but they merely fell flat against the firewall Nimrod had erected. How blasphemous, Jai-I was now the ‘virus’ trying to get in. Cast out from his own domain, overtaken by an enigmatic kid, the former ruler of ZOOL.A.ND kept at bay from entering. Nimrod’s antivirus was potent, it gave Jai-I’s troop boils and headaches, unceremoniously transmitting a viral disease through cyber-air and cyber-fluids, and soon soldiers were coughing and sneezing and dying of spam. In a week’s time Jai-I’s entire army was wiped out.  

    That’s not the end. Know how bubonic plagues are
most efficient killing machines? Epic epidemics devoured populations of entire continents throughout millennia. No wonder biological warfare is a beloved amongst generals. The disease mushrooms, and then all of Jai-I’s kingdom is rabid dogs biting each other to death.

  
Nimrodititis, doctors named it; virtual cousin of the rabies strain, but thrice more virulent. Infected become ultraviolent. They attack anything. Not only do they tear at humans, but they sink corrupted teeth into all other objects, dead or living. No species was spared. It’s terrifyingly comical, seeing a contaminated person going berserk; hands, legs, flailing, chasing dragonflies to nibble venous wings. Flora was also in danger; once transmitted, all gentle creatures became ‘beavers’ chomping down trees. Don’t mention greens; even unanimated, lifeless things get eaten. Polluted subjects, many close to Jai-I’s heart, have been seen hurling themselves at trains, biting onto bumpers, scraping at doors, banging heads on lampposts...

    When the worm had consumed enough of the brain, the infected convulses and crumples. In a minute...dead.   

    Initially, Jai-I thought he could easily reclaim his territories, but the boy was not as dumb as he was. Jai-I never managed to hack in, and till this day his empire remained in enemy hands. With hope gone, humiliated and outwitted by Nimrod’s deft touch, Jai-I clung to Trekz’z fake cleavage, allowing the ominous jublees the hideous task of erasing him. Consolation is in the shape that the Shifter is okay; otherwise lover god may have committed suicide.

   “Going away. I’m tak
ing a break; need time to think.” He wrote in sloppy digital handwriting, “Call me at Trekz’z tit, assuming he remains female. If not, find me in whatever organ he’s possessing. You’ll find a way in, knowing you. Signing off...Jai-I, adopted son of Jahr, who recently found out how puny and insignificant he is.
How can I please my father when I can’t even overcome a child???
”

41

    Conclusion, Sharon is my pussy envy. Brave men turn gay. Heroes cross-dress, and Purple Hearts are given to transsexuals.

    Cowards remain jealous.

    And most men
are
cowards.

    We desire
, but we dare not change. How we wish we had the curves to slip into that hot revealing number. How we wish we could tempt other pathetic males.

    How we wish we could fuck ourselves.

    Well, of course all this mental hype is happening in the subliminal. Men don’t actually think about it. They definitely don’t talk about it; but in that experiment, when the subject’s id is let loose, it often manifests in the feminine. A sexy anima flirting in hypnotism.

    Moreover, aged-old
data from Internet days show tons of convulsing dicks hiding behind computer screens, pretending to be chicks engrossed in naughty chat.

    Imagining you have a vagina seducing faceless cocks gives you an erection.

    However, the single most potent explanation to this phenomenon is simply innocent. Behind the smokescreen, congenital perverts plainly want to be girls because it’s just more fun! The modern world is
designed for the modern female; all to catch her girly attention. Fashion, beauty products, home decorative, knickknacks etcetera, they add to her colossal excitement. Even what which were traditionally men’s toys were given feminine facelifts – coupes, cute electronic gadgets with cuter apps still, and videogames primed for delicate sensibilities for example. Looking and feeling good in an ergonomic cosmopolitan era necessitates the feeding of her confidence; and the cusp is to be the decisive point of attraction. A beautiful woman is the pinnacle of physical hierarchy. Men, seeing their bodily lack and ridiculous reproductive organ naturally desire for that evasive top.

    To crown it off, one last criterion to the findings of this study is
...friends.
Girlfriends
. Women bond with each other in ways mysterious to the male mind. Unlike his lonely stripper joint of macho solitude, flocking females squawk as a tribe. They share and express the heart in bedroom traditions; but more importantly, they share and express the covenantal joy of shopping!
oe

    So, the paradox of
pussy envy is that though the pathetic and pusillanimous male surreptitiously aspires to be a lady, he never has the balls to trade in his penis. Born with that thing dangling and drooping, he accepts his low position in creation, and in lieu, adores her glorious beauty with that laughable pleasure of ejaculation. 

    Hence, craven bloke elucidated that I am, though blessed with testicles, never had real balls to switch to aerodynamic genitals. What do I do? I fashion another after my image, a female form, a
young
female form to reabsorb the encounters of this existence in a she-perspective. Thus, Sharon is born, my
fe
-male-self, irritating but intriguing like hell; to walk through this world a woman, fulfilling male dreams, answering that higher call of a cunt’s life. Schoolgirl Sharon was incarnated from Queen Sha-Rronne for me to re-feel adolescence, a teenage girl’s rite of passage to adulthood, the path of the goddess – boys, bffs, Seventeen magazine, rebellion, moody hormones, menstruation, sanitary napkins and tampons... Pussy envy,
solved!
    

    Now, any father that tells you he has had no vile thoughts creeping across the theatre of his mind starring his nymphet is a liar. Only that most dads are stationed on higher moral ground when temptation floods. Societal laws they obey.

    Take this law away, or substitute with cultish practices, and you may get a different story.

    Sharon, as she sits on IKEA furniture, plops her breasts upon IKEA furniture.

    They are
at a ripening stage, I can tell; though I should not. The vanity of being a patriarch, the duty to protect against young wolfs; but who is there to protect her from me? Even in Illuminati society
, especially
in Illuminati society; Sharon can turn her back and incarcerate me. So I stay in line and chase away those carrion crows, those ravens inbreeding, with the cane of cultural shame, before they can nest family fantasies in my brain and I regret the despicable act of paedophilia and incest punishable by death and emasculation.

    I must be careful.

    A thirty year gap between man and girl of analogous genes obviously spells parent and child, what more in my case, father and daughter are onebeing. In my oxymoron defence, perhaps this genetic cloning forgives me the attraction. Sharon is me after all, my pussy envy!? Surely I have the right to discover myself...play with myself...     

    But no, we’d vowed to be two separate persons. At that point before the bungee, before the chisel of the Omniscient Artist, we had to sign a contract. Sharon is to mature free of my niggling possession
, except for minor psychic DNA communications. This refers only to spiritual connections, the unexplainable spasms of souls recalling previous incarnations, the uncanny tactile bond shared by identical twins thousands of miles apart; Ripley’s believe it or not kinda stuff.

Wh
at more, on a planet the ruling-class does not think twice about discarding excess populace, whatever it takes to maintain the five-hundred-million; you better behave! Break any needless law successfully lobbied and you could be dead. Well, technically speaking, Mother Earth can deal with up to a billion prodigal sons, but her steward, the Illuminati, would already be hatching grand plans to reduce that quantity should the population be on the uptrend.    

It all started nobly, a vision of the world without poverty, without suppression; a world where multi-millionaires make up the me
mbers of the lowest social strata. Everyone was wealthy. Everyone had their needs and wants met. Everyone was educated and well-informed and polite even in the presence of adversity. Everyone spoke with wit, grace and the elegant conundrum or prose birthed from the pages of prized literature. But man being man soon subjugated other men. A hierarchy developed with the Illuminati at the top. All others were created to serve them. No doubt, each person that walked the face of the Earth was rich, but they were rich slaves. It was the best way to prevent an uprising - meet the greedy and selfish desires and ambitions of your servants to subvert subversive thinking amongst them, and ensure the numerical value of inhabitants remain in stagnant increase so as all may share in the abundance of the land. Should seditious thoughts arise from the minds of some, nip it, tuck it...
castrate it, geld it, abort it!
Make an example of those who spore and spawn without the authorization and solemnization of the ruling-class. Those violators, forfeit their lives and root out their family tree; burn the man, the woman, and together with their relatives, living ancestors and progeny, cast their ashes as sacrifice.

    Bad thing, in the world I came, man have not colonized neighbouring moons and planets. Fact, none of the worlds in the Solar System has yet
been terra-formed for habitation. Before real estate in space, before International Space Stations became suburbs orbiting the heavens; I was already long dead in this form, and merely celestial dust, when man reached Alpha Centauri. Peppered along its course, space cowboy towns and frontiers; all the makings of an astral spaghetti western set in the Kuiper belt.

    Future then, bad boys and girls were just exiled to the far
thest regions of known universe. Second-class children, non-favoured sons of kings, too were forced to migrate. To Io, Pluto, undeveloped zones of the empire; the farther from Earth, the lower you ranked. Fat Illuminati got lazy. As long as order was kept, like well mowed lawn, within their enclave, the outer rim was left to evolve and mutate in lawlessness and disgrace. What grew was not pretty; a violent existence. Cosmic tribes formed, alien subcultures sprang; these out-districts, an anthropologist’s happy place. But more on that another time.

    Summary, whatever your destiny, at least you called the shots. Live or die is by your guts, wit or folly. In my time
, you were just gassed if you contravened.  

    Look, my defence, what I’ve done is just evolution, the natural course of man. In early 16
th
Century Leonardo Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa, arguably the most recognized artwork. Facial symmetric scan shows Mona was actually Leo disguised as a woman. A desire of the Renaissance man - to be a girl; what more, one lasting throughout millenniums. A beautiful girl, a goddess, a mysterious beauty, Leonardo knew that was the only way for a man to be truly remembered. Again and again history reinforces this theory of pussy envy. The Mona Lisa, the subject of much adoration, debate and satire; she has been copied, altered and modified. Among some, Salvador Dali and Marcel Duchamp, famed artists, predictably superimposed their masculine mugs upon that wonder woman, to follow after the footsteps of the great Da Vinci, and have for themselves a legacy in whatever Surrealist or Dadaist heaven they’re now residing.

    Call Sharon my futuristic
version of male fetish already exposed aeons ago. Why settle for oil on poplar panel, or canvas, when you can have flesh? Flesh and blood. DNA. I am merely fulfilling every manly need. Why pretend to be a woman when you can
be
a woman. So from here, the story takes a twist, a diversion; what you’ll read is Sharon’s narrative.

42

Sharon

    I killed a man today. He gave my shotgun a blowjob, and it decorated the walls with an orchid painting of brain pulp when orgasm pulled the trigger. His face, what’s left of it anyway, flopped like a squashed banana out of its peeled skin, and the tongue, long, lolled from left to right as though it belonged to a salivating dog.